The littlest bites

The dough lay on the baking sheet, pale and undressed.
The twisted shapes were waiting for the usual egg
wash and the sprinkling of sugar and cinnamon.
I stood outside the pâtisserie window, my forehead
pressed against the tall, etched glass, wanting one
of these pastries so badly I could nearly die for it.
The aromas from the shop floated through the doorway,
mingling with the street smells. I moved closer to the
door and peered through the crack to see the interior of
the shop. A woman was bent over the baking racks, apron
tied around her ample waist, allowing the world to see
her avoirdupois. The ties cut into her fat middle section
as she carefully slid a huge tray from the ancient oven
and placed it on the grey and white marble counter. The
man, tall and lean in opposition to his wife's heft, stood
behind the counter and, slowly raising the steaming milk
pitcher in his right hand high into the air, with the espresso
pot in his left following suit, poured the perfect café au lait
for a customer, the dual streams of hot liquid mingling
mid-air and frothing into the large white bowl on the counter.

The Music

I wait in silence,

   the invitation ever present

   for her to slip into my awareness;

   to whisper into my ear

   the thoughts,

   the words, I know are hiding,

   somewhere, 

   ready to emerge from the fog,

   needing only a little push to

   begin the burst of music,

   the song my heart is longing

   to sing.    

Her name is 

   Saraswati.

   My muse.   

   She is the music that

   plays softly around me,

   enveloping me in some other

   consciousness;  she is the music I

   hear inside my heart.

She is of the air, as is

   my Libran self.

   We of the air have, they say,

   the ability to reason,

   to communicate.

   My ethereal Saraswati,

   goddess of learning

   and wisdom.

   Goddess of the arts.

"Come,", she says.  "Give me your

      hand.  Let me show you the strength of

      your music.  Let me be the source;

      your bolster and your guide."

I acquiesce, knowing her

   devotion to me is

   without agenda, 

   without motive 

   other than 

   introducing me to

   my music; my voice.

   

I talk to her 

   softly, 

   silently, 

   not willing to disturb the melody that

   swirls in an eddy around me,

   moving from 

   heart 

   to mind 

   to fingertips.  

Is it her story I'm telling?

   She says not.  I say that

   perhaps it's ours to share.

   She considers.  

   She likes that.

   We are a team, 

   a wondrous team,

   holding hands while we dance to

   the music -- to our music.

The music is 

   our connective tissue.

The music is 

   our joy of discovery.

 The music is 

   our love. 

Me at the age of five. Taken by Ansel Adams, December 23, 1950

Going to Christmas

It was Monday night and I was four. I sat at the top of the stairs, waiting impatiently for the bell to ring. My head was teeming with excitement and my heart was singing my favorite song. Per so nent hod i e. Each syllable was detached from the other, for the Latin words made no sense to me, but this was the tune that I sang when I knew it was time for him to arrive. The song was about far off magical places and wonderful people and -- well, about Ansel.

I had called Ansel Adams "The Beard" since I could call him anything. Tall, commanding, funny -- he was what made the Fall of the year so exciting. He, and my father and my mother and all the men who made up the group known as "The Bracebridge Singers", brought marvelous magic to my house.

"When can we go to Christmas?" I would ask my parents. The endless questioning must have driven them crazy. Going to Christmas was what I longed for. Going to Christmas meant going to Yosemite. The first ten months of the year were a total wash for me. Nothing vaguely interesting or important happened until the weather turned crisp and the men started arriving for rehearsals.

The Fall was time to begin preparing for The Bracebridge Dinner, a Christmas pageant that had been happening at The Ahwahnee Hotel in Yosemite National Park for the past, at that time, twenty-three years. Already widely known throughout the country, this was a beautiful production with a story based on Washington Irving's “Sketchbook” writings. Ansel Adams, a frequent visitor to the valley throughout his young years, was, in 1927, hired by the owner of the hotel to devise a holiday show to entertain the guests, who at that time had to made the long trip to Yosemite by ratteley car over rough roads and crickity bridges, slip-sliding over ice and snow and other inconveniences. They needed some recompense for merely arriving at the hotel in one piece, so The Bracebridge Dinner was born.

When Ansel began working with Yosemite Park & Curry Company as the creator of this show, he was just a young fellow with a love for two things: music and photography. He was studying to be a concert pianist, but he learned soon on that photography was calling to him with the loudest voice. His music background gave him the ability to choose songs for the production, while his somewhat poetical soul tugged at him to write the lines the actors spoke as the Boar's Head and the Wassail and Plum Pudding were presented to Squire Bracebridge.

Ansel was the director of the show. He hired my father in 1934 as the musical director, and later my mother became the accompanist as well as coordinator of the myriad details surrounding the production.

Every Christmas I had ever known had been in Yosemite. What joy I experienced as I was gradually allowed to attend the rehearsals in the Hotel and play hide and seek with my sister in the hallways and in the huge hotel kitchen, or slip into the costume room to pretend I was big enough to wear one of the pretty dresses that hung on tall racks in 2E, a boiler room that was cleared out once a year to house the various traveling elements of the show.

Ansel was bigger than life, particularly to this little girl who adored him. "Is The Beard coming tonight?" I would ask my mother excitedly, barely able to sit still as she combed my long blonde hair into the braids that I hated so much. When the answer was "yes", I sailed right up to heaven, ready to wait impatiently with all the angels for his arrival.

That was sixty years ago. Ansel and my parents are gone, but The Bracebridge Dinner still exists and I’m still around to tell the story of the show and of my six decades with the production.

The Bracebridge Dinner was, those many years ago, a marvelous, albeit a very restrained and proper Christmas celebration. It was beautiful. What couldn't be beautiful with the Ahwahnee Dining Room as its setting?

The Dinner had a pomp and a solemnity to it that was captivating. Bracebridge was the epitome of the old fashioned Christmas -- a feast for the eye as well as the palate. In 1937, Time magazine featured the Bracebridge Minstrel on its cover. Requests for attendance caused a second Dinner to be added on Christmas Day in 1956.

When I was thirteen, I had an unusual voice change, an onrush of hormones causing me to, literally overnight, develop a deep contralto voice. Wow! It was exciting beyond words to try out this new voice. I found myself belting out songs so loudly that my dear grandmother begged for mercy and had to plead with me to be quiet. This change of voice didn’t go unnoticed by Ansel. After a number of years being a lowly extra, Ansel created the part for me of the Ward of Squire Bracebridge. I was jazzed at being promoted to an actual cast member. A few years later, he cast me as the Minstrel. Playing a guitar and singing, I serenaded the guests at their tables, as well as singing with the chorus.

Ansel’s choice of music for the show was always tasteful, if not theatrically inspired. To this day, one of my favorite songs is Bach’s “Dist du bei mir” which says “If thou be near, I go with gladness to death and to eternal rest”. What a strange choice for a Christmas celebration! Well, from that somber little ditty, the male chorus would launch into a lusty chorus of “Wassail!”. There was absolutely no correlation between the two songs, nor did Bach’s song have a connection with Christmas, but how I loved that music! Today, whenever I hear the song sung, I am transported back to the Ahwahnee Dining Room and to those rehearsals and performances.

I played the part of the Minstrel for eighteen years, then in 1978, The Bracebridge Dinner saw two major changes. A third Dinner was added on Christmas Eve and my father died. We had just finished the dress rehearsal at The Ahwahnee and he and my mother returned to their room at Yosemite Lodge. He put the key in the door and told my mother he was feeling dizzy, and with that, he fell back and died in her arms. They were still in costume.

My mother was stalwart during that period. When it was assumed the show would be cancelled, she insisted that it not be. My father had donated his body to UC Medical Center for research, so there was no need to return home. We stayed and completed the three performances and a final concert on December 26^th.

So now we came to the $64,000 question: who would take over the direction of this now-world famous show? Even while we were doing those three last performances that fateful year, it was being suggested that I was the natural choice for successor.

The Company decided that I should take over the reigns of leadership. I was terrified. Accepting this responsibility meant that I had to fill multiple roles. First of all, I had to take over the stage direction of the show. I had majored in drama in college and had been on the professional stage for quite a few years, but I had never directed a show. I also became the musical director. I had never studied conducting, but my life had been filled with music since the beginning of my time, so I immediately began a crash course in conducting. The third element was becoming the producer. The financial aspect of the show was mine to deal with; all the hiring and firing, the costumes and the sets and dealing with contracts and with The Company. It was a huge job. And finally, I had to write myself into the show as the leading character, to take the place of Ansel’s and my father’s role of Major Domo. My acting and singing role became “The Housekeeper”.

I don't know how I did it, but I did it all. I guess naïveté was my bolster. I just plunged ahead, praying I would survive the Company’s scrutiny. They were watching closely to see how I was doing. It was big time scary. I’m not sure many people believed I could really do the job adequately. I wasn't sure myself if I could do it; if I could hold up under the strain.

Opening night was fraught with horror. The night before, I got sick and had two episodes of projectile vomit, the nastiness of which left me just in time to get costumed and made up for the first performance. The Company, wanting to make sure they had the seal of approval from the Big Guy, Ansel, invited Adams and his wife Virginia to be at that performance. If he didn't like what I had done, then I would be out and they would be looking for a new producer/director/actor. The lights dimmed. The audience rustled as they settled into their seats, expectations high. The opening strains of the music started. The Bracebridge Dinner -- my Bracebridge Dinner - had begun.

As the applause continued through a number of curtain calls, I experienced a moment of genuine contentment. It had worked. It had all come together in a manner that gave me tremendous satisfaction. To have been able to take over the reigns of this beautiful and moving show was the greatest gift I had ever been given. To have the applause ringing in my ears was the sweetest music I had ever heard.

It’s Monday night and I am sixty-four. I am still, thirty years later, producing and directing The Bracebridge Dinner. I have rewritten it, changed and tweaked and added to it so it is now a theatrical production worthy of being called, by the Wall Street Journal two years ago, "America's, if not the world's, premiere Christmas Dinner".

Now that it's over

 

Now that it’s over, I have her ring.  A remembrance of 

slender, tapered fingers; of almond-shaped nails that 

never met a cuticle;  of fingers that flew over the keys 

with confidence and joy, eliciting melody from her

heart.

My mother was in love with melody.  She heard melody 

in everything --  in the hum of the outboard motor 

engine and the gurgle of a baby’s laugh.  

She was a romantic, and melody was her vehicle to 

explore her romance.  

“Listen to that cello line!” she would exclaim.  “Hear 

how it supports the vocal line.  Hear its melody!”

 

And I would listen.  I would listen to her play Puccini, 

Brahms, Scriabin.  I would see her graceful fingers 

move over the keys and I would feel her joy at the sound, 

at the melody.

 

It wasn’t until she died that part of those beautiful 

hands became mine.  She asked if I would like her 

ring when she died.  I so wanted it.  I so wanted a 

remembrance of her grace and charm and talent.  

So when she died, I slipped that ring off – the ring 

that had never left her hand from the

moment it was placed there 66 years ago – 

and put it onto my finger.

 

Now that I have that part of her, will I hear her melodies?

 

Fiji

 
The melon felt heavy in my palm, weighted with golden juice; aroma like warm, ripe summer.  I was surprised to see the fruit in the market.  Most fresh foods seem to take on an ashen cast by the time they reached this small "super" market in Savusavu, a room the equivalent of a fairly sizeable storage barn.    This cantaloupe was neither grey nor wasted.  It smelled delicious and my mouth watered at the thought of adding this to our meager, tasteless dinner.
 
I'd had a problem with the food from the moment I'd arrived in Fiji.  Oh, not in Nadi, where they cater to tourists and have every type of  fast food that could be found.  But I wasn't in Nadi, I was in a tiny harbor town far away from the big island.  And I was worried about food, about having the right mix of protein to starch, the right balance to avoid my frequent hypoglycemic incidents.
 
I'd done my research before flying off to this group of islands more than half way across the planet.  Cassava and taro.  These were the staples of the Fijian diet.  A root plant, the cassava was used to make tapioca, one of my favorite deserts.  At least that's how I had known it to be used.  In Fiji, it was the main starch of the meal:  boiled, fried, fixed in any number of ways to make it interesting, to make it cooperate with the other flavors, but never, never arriving at a flavor that was, to my palate, enticing.  It wasn't the delicious, creamy texture of our potato.  It wasn't one of the many variations of pasta, with wonderful but simple sauces to bath in.  It wasn't anything that tasted remotely like, well, anything.  Bland. Strangely textured.  My tongue recoiled at the feel and taste of the white, earthen vegetable.
 
Taro brought up second place in tastelessness  Even though these two roots were used constantly, day in and day out, by the native Fijians, they failed to excite me in any measure.
 
If the islanders have access to a chicken, they’ll boil its skinny carcass along with the roots, or serve beef, which is very scarce due to the ever-present worms the cows of the islands were host to.  As I drove past these pathetic creatures, I could see the bovine ribs holding up skin which had lost its form and now collapsed into the cow, causing my undying sympathy for those wonderful creatures, and fretting over the lack of care the islanders afforded them.
 
But animals, for Fijians -- for any third world peoples -- are a luxury past their grasp.  You'll seldom see a house pet in Fiji.  Dogs run down the roads in wild packs, scavenging for what food they can find, fighting among themselves for the scraps.  Emaciated, unloved and oh, so sad.  My heart cries when I see the total lack of concern the Fijians have for these creatures.  I had to talk long and hard to myself to find any forgiveness for this negligence.  I knew in my head that when there was only enough food to, perhaps, feed the family, none of it could be "wasted" on mere animals,  but my heart said the animals were here before us humans and should be revered for their persistence against our inhumanity toward them; our extreme cruelty in their treatment, in our neglect of them.  I couldn’t let anyone, no matter their circumstances, off the hook on this issue.
 
There was so much here in the South Seas that was beautiful:  the turquoise ocean,  the coral reefs adding drama to the vista of blue --  reds,
browns, motley collections of color that moved languidly under the water.  The reefs laid claim to an entire über existence under the ocean’s surface.    I
thought of my disgust when travel books talked about Fiji and its beauty -- always touting the high-end resort;  the oceanographic trips for those who
had the money to throw away on dilatant vacations.  I wanted the articles to talk about the real Fiji -- the people who, a scant hundred years ago, still practiced cannibalism. Yes, I found this place remarkably beautiful, tremendously interesting, yet the actual being there seemed to repel me  There was so much that I found almost impossible to accept, impossible to live with.  Yet, I had made a commitment to try, a commitment to see if this could possibly be our second home — our place to retire.  I was obliged to tuck away my judgments and my dislikes.  I was obliged to give it my very best shot.  I had to keep that dialogue going in my mind, fighting to keep my vow to try, so that my ugly prejudices -- which I had always disdainfully criticized others for,  never dreaming I myself could harbor them in my liberal heart -- wouldn't cause the battle to be lost before it had barely begun.  

My prejudice was about the completely foreign life style, the unfamiliarity of thought and action;  the dirt and the lack of sanitation;  the doctor’s office, which was a tiny lean-to with rickety benches on the porch for prospective patients to sit on while waiting in the drenching afternoon sun.  The complete lack of most common creature comforts. It was always easy for me, as a tourist, to travel through a less fortunate country, saying "How quaint!  How delightful!" Now I was actually living in these conditions, socializing with the indiginous people, considering this as a possible residence, and my fears rose up and whispered in my ear "Hey, kid, this ain't America.  Let's get out of here and back to reality."   I felt conflicted.  I felt shame.  I felt sadness.  I felt very alone.
 
It was only too easy to find my mind lapsing into a litany of what was not to my liking.   I would never call myself your typical ugly American.  I have enormous respect for these people who have been uprooted from their traditions and their regions and have been forced into a pseudo-European life -- one that blatantly doesn't mesh with their rich and ancient culture.  But I am, through little fault of my own, spoiled, as most American’s are.  This was the complete flip side of any life I’d ever known.  For the first time, I felt I knew the true meaning of the word foreign.  I felt as if I was drowning in this other-people’s culture.  I was scared at having nothing to identify with.   No music, for theirs is all American rock and roll or Methodist hymns, these people who, a scant hundred years ago, still practiced cannibalism;  these natives who were converted, sad to say, from their joyful primitive life and their gods of weather, ocean and well-being, to our Western God of repression and guilt.   They moved from the comfort of simple grass or cloth skirts — breasts exposed and hanging happily for all to see -- to being covered from toe to neck, the modest Christian dress they were convinced was necessary for the salvation of their souls.

I see the cruelty of communication.  The way movies and television have brought the outside world to these people, leaving them with the desire to
live like the rest of the world, without the means of making it a reality.  I feel heaviness in my heart when I remember the times I was
lied to, cheated and scammed because I looked like a wealthy American (to them, ANY American looked like a wealthy American).  I didn't know that
generosity was a failing here; it was taken as the emblem of the international patsy.  I was amazed to find that the daughter of the town’s minister had named her infant after me:  Andrea Fulton Ade Muhalele.  Of course, with this honor came responsibility;  I was expected to sponsor the child, make sure she had a life filled with the privilege only Western wealth could bring.  The family would be honored in the community, and the child would be assured a prosperous life.  At first I was quite pleased at this honor, but the pleasure faded as I was immediately hit up for money.  And more money.  And yet again, more money.  I was simply a means of support to this family.
       
My profession is music – classical music — but European-influenced classical is something that is completely absent from the islanders’ experience;  it’s  not the hymns and the rock and roll that permeate their culture.  What would I do with my life if we did relocate here?  My work had always offered me an identity.  I felt that without my career, I really didn’t have much else to offer.  But I couldn’t bring my career with me to Fiji.  What would I do?  Who would I become?  My stomach knotted at the thought of disappearing from my known world, moving into a world that had none of my needed familiarity.  Who says that prejudice isn’t based on fear?  Ha!  It’s nothing but fear — fear of the unknown and fear of the unfamiliar.  Fear of getting lost in someone else’s reality.  Deep-rooted, horribly tangible fear.
 
So, here I was with this melon in my palm, wondering whatever had possessed me, after that first State of the Union speech, to tell my partner that I was scared silly of George W. and why not move somewhere far away from this evil administration's grasp?  Could this really have been me suggesting this?  What ever made me flip that little decision-making switch in my brain that started this whole Fiji adventure?
 
I put the melon down.  Better to keep the good flavors to a minimum.  That way, when once again they weren't available, I wouldn't miss them so much.
  

On the street where I live

I live on a street where

silence calls 

loudly 

"Come sit here.

Quietly. 

Listen."

I live on a street where

I am

Myself. 

No

Pretense.

No 

Dissembling.

I live on a street where

Beings 

turn inward,

looking to the soul

for

Nourishment

instead of running to

MacDonald's to fill the

empty reservoir.

I live on a street where

Light dazzles 

and 

Music is in the breeze;

where 

Joy takes each by the

Hand 

and says

"Time is short.  

Live 

with happiness. 

Ecstatic

happiness."

I live on a street where

Experience speaks 

of

living, not in 

half-measures, but 

Fully.

Fully committed. 

Fully dedicated.

Fully alive.

I love on the street where

I live.

Blowing in the wind

Wind is for circulating

the things in life that need to

keep on the move.

It's for sweeping clean

the odd bit that

doesn't quite fit; 

that

looks at you questioningly

and says 

What am I doing here?

It's for moving the

chi around the earth;

for swirling it through

the trees and the grasses;

for caressing a baby's cheek

and playing with 

your cat's whiskers.

The wind blows through

my hair and gives me the

gift of consciousness -- the

gladness of knowing there's more

on this planet than

Me.

Solitude

Endless people.  Endless lines.  Every once in a 

while, one needs to get out of the line, step to the 

side and take a deep breath.  Carve out a little

time and space for quiet time, for solitude, for the self.

I seldom take the time to do this.  I get so caught

up in the gotta-do-it stuff that I find the day has 

passed without a moment for slowing down my

body or my brain.  Not a moment in the day to 

allow me to get in touch with the stillness that 

I love so much.

Last month I was in Venice.  My partner and I 

were staying at an hotel that served a full breakfast 

in the downstairs dining room.  Lani likes to sleep

late and  I love the very early hours, so the first 

morning of our visit I took myself to the dining 

room for breakfast.  It turned out to be much more

than breakfast.  It was a magical time, a time that 

was just mine.  No one else to intrude on my 

thoughts.  No one else to interrupt my reading.  No

one else to have to acknowledge -- except me.  

And then I realized how seldom I do this 

acknowledging of me; this honoring of the self.

I felt as if I was wrapped in a cocoon, sheltered 

from the entire world.  It was like being cradled 

in bliss.  My soul soared in the completeness of it

all.   Stillness.  Nothing to do but be.  A chance 

to eat slowly, to relish every morsel.  A chance 

to look up and observe the few other diners -- or

not -- and to have yet another cup of fragrant coffee

and maybe just a little more of that delicious pastry. 

There were no rules.  No diets.  Nothing but the bliss 

of being alone.

I guess the closest I come to that heaven is when

 I arise very early and come down to write.  

The stillness is thick and the darkness comforting.

There is a unique quality in the air, in the space 

of an early morning.  The birds are just beginning 

their songs.  There's a solitude that soothes; takes 

away the hard edges of worry and drive.  When 

I have this quiet time to welcome my day, it is a 

guarantee of a different type of day to follow.  I am 

grounded.  I deal with the tumult in a much more 

gracious manner.

This stillness, this lack of complexity, is calling 

to me.  I treasure my solitude.  I treasure myself 

when I submit to this solitude.  When I grow

up, or perhaps in my next lifetime, I want to be 

solitary Japanese maple with delicate green foliage 

that sways lightly in the breeze, sitting in warm

earth with the sun keeping me company.  

Just the earth and the sun.  

And me.

Freedom

I hate people who try to defend that which is, in my estimation, patently wrong.  I am talking about the right wing population of our country, the über conservative faction of America that proudly carries the torch of Christian values, of family values, of moral values, of values that necessitate condemnation of those who want room to think for themselves, and to live their life with the  freedom that the country was, supposedly, created to achieve.

As history is held up to the light of day, we can see that freedom was, to our fore"fathers", a freedom that was comfortable for them.  Our constitution gave these self-proclaimed morally upright men the opportunity to use people with impunity; that is, people who weren't really people.  The native American,.The African-American. American woman, no matter the race.  

I know it is an anti-spiritual concept to harbor feelings of hate.  And I really try not to, but as time after time we see our government slap our unalienable rights to the ground, this government that is supposed to be of the people, by the people and for the people -- all people, not the chosen few -- I can't help feel my ire rise and my hate mechanism rear its ugly head as I ask what it's going to take to get to the point where these people who quickly judge and condemn will allow the "different", the disenfranchised, the wonderful ones left behind in the dust, to be allowed to live their own life on their own terms.

I am disappointed and disillusioned with my country and I can't in any way defend it’s practices.  Perhaps if we hadn't been lied to from the git-go; if we hadn't been led to believe that freedom was a right available to everyone, then the lie might not hurt so much.  But our entire lives have been spent thinking our country was based upon this premise of freedom, and it has been the big untruth.  The big illusion.  The big, convenient falsehood that has allowed the white, heterosexual, Christian male of this country to manipulate us and decide what’s best for us.  Us, the different, the disenfranchised, the wonderful ones that have some individuality and who walk to a slightly different beat.  These are the ones who will always fight for freedom. Freedom, in the true sense of the word, for all.   This is what I will defend and fight for.  And then America will be, in fact, what America, to date, has merely claimed to be.  And we will all be free.

The downside of technology

or What do you do when the damned thing brakes?

OMG. It's Dead. I jab the at keys and buttons

viciously, hoping the urgency of my touch will

wake up the monster, get it on my side, coax it to be

willing to help. But no amount of prodding or kicking

or sweet talk will wake the demon. It just looks back

at me with its expressionless face awash with my latest

desktop photo. I resist a desire to throw the whole

collection of computer, printers, hard drives, scanner

and all the interminable wires and cords through

the window. Not a very sensible thing to do, but it

sure would make me feel as if something was happening;

something was being accomplished.

Look, I'm of the older generation. I don't get all

this electrical stuff. I don't get the twitters and

the Facebooks and the instant messaging. I just

learned yesterday what OMG means. So now let me

say it again. OMG. I'm sunk. So much work to be

done. My panic level rises. The list of prompts for

The Daily Write (my current religion) , the organizing

that needs to be done for tonight's rehearsal,the lists

that are waiting for completion for this afternoon's

meeting, the addresses held captive and the emails

that Ican't respond to -- all totally out of my grasp..

All as dead as the damned machine. Lifeless. I am

undone without my computer.

I call Apple help. It rings and rings and then

they say to leave a message. I do. No return call.

I call again and leave a message that's not quite

what they might have been expecting. Bad girl!

Such language! It feels good to be screaming at

something, even though the only things receiving

my rage, hearing my screams, are machines.

This is a recipe for killing one's self. I am not

good with machines. We have never been friendly,

hence the Mac. PC's and I parted company years

ago, when DOS was naive enough to think I could

understand a word it was saying. I have to admit,

the Mac is a beautiful machine. It's pretty. It's

easy -- most of the time. The little icons are so sweet.

They take away the need to think about what you're

doing. Just click and play.

But not today. I have tied my partner to the chair

of my desk so she will stay there until it's fixed.

She understands these things. But it seems that even

she isn't going to be able to fix this problem.

%**^&^$$%^&**@#! See, her computer is perfectly

willing to swear right along with me. Let's make

it into a duet -- in the key of "screwed!"

Perhaps I'll calm down in a little while. I doubt it,

but it's the healthy, sensible thing to try to do.

Blood pressure raging isn't going to help a thing.

So I am now going to go make a cup of coffee. And

I am going to take the cup of coffee into the garden

and breathe deeply and smell the roses. And the

hydrangeas and the jasmine. Do you really

think this therapy will help? I have my doubts...

Her religion is love

It was a startling disclosure. I had been diagnosed
with NASH -- non-alcoholic cirrhosis of the liver,
and I was rated 50% on my new life insurance policy.
That was four years ago. Constant monitoring showed
the disease was still alive and thriving in my liver.

Then in September of 2007, I received a bit of news
that knocked me to my knees: my blood tests came
back showing I had severely compromised kidneys,
tumors on my adrenal glands, diabetes -- not just the
hypoglycemia I'd had for years -- as well as very high
cholesterol and off-the-charts LDL.

I remember coming home from the doctor that day
and lying down on the couch and whimpering. I
couldn't move. I was overwhelmed by the results of the
tests. While I have never wanted to actively prolong
my life, here I was with multiple options for death
to use to take me out.

Fast forward to June of last year. I had just met
Amma, a guru who has nothing but love in her
heart and multitudinous good deeds to back up
that love. Well, what Amma does is hug people.
So I got a hug from Amma. Another of the things
that she does is answer questions, so I got in the
question line and wrote down my question: what
does all this ill heath mean? I was disappointed
that the line closed down before I could submit
my question.

That was in June. In July, I had to see my doctor
for another round of tests. When I went back to
get the results, the doctor was nonplussed. "I don't
know how to explain this. All of your test results
are normal."

I plied her with questions. My liver? Normal. My
adrenals? No tumors. My kidneys? Nothing going
on there. No diabetes and my cholesterol and LDL
were perfect. In fact, she marveled over my cholesterol.
"It's the fluffy kind" she said, "and that wonderful!"

I was elated. I would get to remove the rating from my
life insurance. I would be able, if I do indeed have
to continue this life, to live as a healthy person.

The next day I happened to read an article about
Amma. It was written by a reporter that had no
connection to Amma, and she made this very clear
at the outset of the article. Among many points
the writer made, after interviewing many people,
was about Amma and healing. "I do not heal" said
Amma. "God heals". She said she was merely a
vehicle by which God worked. It wasn't her. It
was God.

And then I knew what had happened. I'd been
healed. By Amma, or, as she would insist, by God. 

Evidently the intent of the question I was 

holding in my heart was what Amma heard. 

I was forced to rethink some of my ideas about 

gods  and miracles and all the concomitant

stuff that goes along with something of this sort. I
experienced a deep and profound gratitude. I was
really quite overwhelmed by the fact that I was now
whole, now totally well.

The burning question that kept coming up was how
could I be so lucky to be given this grace, this healing?
Why me? I've never received an answer to that
question. At least intellectually. But in my heart, I
know that Amma's grace was on my side. I have
been healed; I have experienced something that,
in the past, I could only envy when it happened
to other people.

So, folks, Jesus ain't the only one who heals. Let's
forget about the labels and the religions and stick
with love. Amma says that her religion is love. What
more could one ask for?

Jazz

Come on, hon, we're gonna paint the town -- and all that jazz.
I'm gonna rouge my knees and roll my stockings down -- and all that jazz.
Come on, babe, I know a whoopee spot where the gin is cold and the piana's hot.
It's just a noisy hall where there's a nightly brawl, and all that jazz.

That’s from the musical  Chicago, a song sung in the show by women emerging from their cocoons.  Wow.  Was that innocence!  They thought they were so “out there” and over the top; and for that period in history, they were.  America had just begun to peek out from the layers of Victorianism and when the hems came up and the morals came down, there was excitement in the air.  An excitement over all the things that could be done, that could be experienced that had never before appeared on the radar screen of the people — of the women -- of this young country.

And did they experience!  Night clubs and booze and drugs and gangsters — the whole nine yards.  What a glorious feeling it must have been to be able to say “I don’t have to follow your crummy rules any longer.  I can step out and strut my stuff and you can’t do anything about it!”  For women, this was groundbreaking.  Forget the hiding of wicked limbs under floor length, heavy dark skirts.  Get rid of the long hair that was so hot and in their way as they scrubbed their floors and cared for their many children and cooked the interminable breakfasts, lunches and dinners for the husbands who would come home to flop down and watch the work, not lifting a finger to help.  Forget the prison of marriage that kept women in, while the men stepped out and had fun.

It all changed.  And it was good.  We needed to break out.  We needed to be able to explore this life, somewhat like a baby crawling around on the floor, grabbing at colorful objects without an eye to what might be harmful, or not.  So women collectively thumbed their noses at the rules that had been created for them by the men.  Women like Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony had laid the ground work for them; the women who had the courage to stand their ground and say “This just isn’t working.”  These are the ones who fought for the rights of women to rouge their knees and dance to jazz and drink their first drinks — if that’s what they wanted to do.  The Stantons and the Anthonys fought for the right to break out of that bubble of isolation that had held women captive for so many centuries.  Hurrah!  

I often think of what it would be like to have lived before the time when women began to move out, began to experience their first tastes of freedom.  Would I have done all those things that had been expected of women before the beginning of liberation?    I know I would have hated it.  And I most likely would have ended up joining with the likes of Stanton and Anthony. Hell, when I lived in New York in the late 60’s, I became a card carrying member of NOW.  I knew how I was being treated at work, and it wasn’t with the same opportunities that were being given to the men.  I like to think I would have been one hell of a rebel.  With a great, big cause.

I’m in the process of planning a musical theatre concert, and All that jazz is on the program.  When I see it being rehearsed and then performed, I’m gonna think of where we’ve come from and what it’s taken to get us where we are, and I’m gonna give those women who laid the groundwork for us a great, enormous roar of thanks!

Working on Wall Street with Martha and Brian

Why, oh why, every time I hear a cooking term, do I

think of Martha Stewart? Think of Martha, and think

of those many years ago that we worked together

in New York, she a stock broker, me the the managing

partner's secretary. And when I think of Martha, I think

of Brian. Brian Dennehy, actor and great all-round guy.

It was fun, back then, to sit at the end of the hall. My

office was the passageway to the coffee and the kitchen.

Everyone streamed through at least a few times a day

to renew their vow to the great god of caffeine.

Martha was the golden girl of Wall Street then. There

were few women in the business of finance back in the

early 70's, and Martha was, without a doubt, the reigning

diva of the world of stocks and bonds. And my boss

wanted me to follow in her footsteps. He thought I was

perfect material, and he dreamed of having two

Martha's -- two women that he could proudly point

out as his "creations". So very Henry Higgins.

So Martha took me to lunch to talk about the

business, only because our boss insisted. She was

much too important to spend time with just a

secretary. But she did it. Unwillingly.

I was much more comfortable with Brian. He was

a struggling actor, doing mostly small plays out

on the Island. Small plays with small companies.

He didn't know I was from a theatrical family and

had, before coming to New York, spent five years

on the stage in Los Angeles. I was an actress (we

called ourselves by the sex-approriate title in those

days) and when he talked about his acting, I softly

chortled to myself.

"Sure", I said, as bitchily as Martha acted toward me.

"Sure, he's an actor." But then he invited me out

to Massapequa to see him in a show. The Odd Couple,

it was. He played Oscar, the messy, action-driven sports

writer, and from knowing Brian in the office, that was

type casting. Not the sports writer part, but messy.

He always had his pants down under his large belly,

and his shirt was always flapping out in back as he

returned to his desk from his tenth coffee run of

the day. Perfect for Oscar.

I went to see him, knowing I was going to have to

be polite about his attempt at being good. Well,

eat my words. He was incredible. He was a titan

on the stage, with all those around him diminished

into very typical, not very good week-end actors.

And I couldn't keep my eyes off of him. All those

conversations with him hadn't prepared me for his

excellence, and I knew that he would end up being big in

the business.

Little did I know that Martha would be big, bigger than

the world, but not in the job I knew her in. I wonder

now if she treats her staff as she treated people back

then. Could her success let her soften up a bit, and

could her maturity allow her a small vestige of kindness

toward those whomshe allow to invade her magic

sphere? Could she possibly extend a hand of genuine

graciousness to those around her? Hmmmm, I wonder...

I can only hope so. I can only hope so.

I hope you enjoy this 4 minute video about Bracebridge.  It's always easier to talk about something that the reader has some knowledge of!